


That one time it was John's fault

by barbarosabee



Series: (mis)Adventures with a Wild Mustang [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Animal Attack, Blood, Gen, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 07:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18426339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbarosabee/pseuds/barbarosabee
Summary: John and Arthur are just trying to get back to camp after a stagecoach robbery went wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peredhelhathladring](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peredhelhathladring/gifts).



> So my friend was just riding along outside Annesburg and we were arguing about Spanish nosotros vs usted/ustedes vs vosotros and she wasn't looking at the TV and suddenly there was a cougar, and I screamed at her and that's how the idea for this fic happened.

“ . . .and _I’m_ telling you it were the other way ‘round!”

“Course your fool brain remembers it wrong, Marston.”

They were heading back to camp, _finally_. Had to lie low for a few days after a stagecoach robbery went tits up. Two of the passengers turned out to be off-duty lawmen and there’d been a vigorous shoot out. Didn’t get any money, in the end, had to turn tail when John caught a bullet to the shoulder, fell off Old Boy and gave himself a nice bump on the head.

Now they were making their long way home through the steep hills of Roanoke Ridge. Trail barely wide enough for them to ride side by side. It cut back on itself sharply and they had to take the turn single-file.

“How’s the shoulder, Marston?”

“Nothing to complain about. And you’re wrong.”

The horses huffed as they kicked up the hill. The trail opened up again and John spurred Old Boy next to Calliope. The mustang didn’t take too kindly to most of the horses in camp, but she had at least tolerated Old Boy during their little trip. Still snorted in irritation when John got too close. John glanced over to Arthur as the other man start to speak; something caught his eye over Arthur’s shoulder.

“John—”

“Cougar!”

John’s scream startled Calliope and she reared. Old Boy shot down the path when he smelled the predator. The reins jerked in John’s hands, pulled at his shoulder painfully. John tried to yank Old Boy back around, succeeded in getting them off the road and into the trees where he could only watch helplessly as the cougar tackled Arthur around the shoulders. John fumbled for his gun one-handed. Arthur kicked the cougar away, reached for the rifle trapped under his back.

The cougar circled back around. John tracked it with his gun—awkward, tryin’ to shoot with his left hand but his shoulder was still bound to his chest—waited till he sighted the head. The shot got it on the nose. Blood sprayed and it stumbled but kept going for Arthur.

He’d gotten the gun from his back. Had enough time to get it up for the cougar to latch onto instead of his chest. Arthur’s shot went uselessly into the air. Startled the birds but the cougar snapped and scrabbled at his face. Arthur was thrown back onto the ground by the weight of it. They wrestled, flipped each other so fast John couldn’t find a clean shot. John wrenched out of his sling and tossed it behind him.

“Shoot it, Marston!”

“I don’t wanna hit you!”

 _Won’t matter if I’m dead._  Arthur snarled, got a knee under the cougar and managed to kick it away, staggered to his feet panting. The wind cooled the blood against his back and the adrenaline wasn’t enough to keep him from feeling weak all over. Ground titled beneath him and spots of several colors crowded into his vision.

Gunshots and several desperate clicks of an empty chamber. Someone skidding to a stop next to him, hands lifting him by his shoulders. When had he fallen?

“Shit, Arthur, I’m sorry, you’re gonna be fine. Arthur. Shit—Arthur. Look at me, Arthur!”

Took about as much effort to open his eyes as it did to climb a mountain.

“It dead?”

“Yeah, it’s dead, we need to stop this bleeding though. Just. Just hang tight.”

Arthur flopped back into the dirt without John there to hold him up. Eyes closed again. Must’ve rained recently, with how wet the ground was beneath him.

A soft warm nose bumped into the side of his head. Bumped again, snorted in his face until he opened his eyes. Calliope stood over him, hooves to either side of his body. Arthur tried to lift a hand to pet her, reassure her, but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur.” John peeled away Arthur’s ruined jacket, wadded it up and pressed it against the deepest gashes on Arthur’s back. “I tried—I couldn’t—”

“Shut up, Marston.” Came out a whisper, did more to concern John. John glanced at Arthur and found his eyes closed again.

“Hey now, c’mon, keep those eyes open, it ain’t so bad.”

Arthur blinked, sluggish. John pulled the coat back to see if the bleeding had slowed. Breathed a deep relieved sigh.

“Okay, see? Bleeding’s stopped already, you’re gonna be fine. Just. Just gotta get you patched up, that ain’t so hard.” John glanced around, tried to think what he should do next. Bandages. Needed to bandage the wounds. Needed to stitch them, really, but he had no idea how to do that. Damn fool hardly worth the weight he could throw around, only knew how to shoot a gun and rob people. _You’re a fool, Marston_. Arthur had said it plenty but this was the first time John was starting to believe it.

Arthur made a noise beneath him.

“Right. Bandages. Let’s uh. Let’s get out of the road.” John hooked his arms under Arthur’s armpits and hauled him across the road, away from the bullet-riddled body of the cougar. Thing didn’t have much of a face left. _Least I can shoot straight._  John’s shoulder ached and stung but he just winced through the pain. Kept quiet. Arthur groaned as he was moved. Head lolling back against John’s chest. His hat had been knocked off and John didn't see it anywhere.

John did not know much about doctorin’. But he could wrap a bandage tight around a wound, he was confident in that much. Wondered if he should bother getting a fire going. Still early enough in the day he could make it back to camp if he pressed hard. Old Boy could carry both of them and Calliope never let Arthur out of her sight if she could help it, she was fast, they could make it. Probably. If nothing else went wrong.

John decided they wouldn’t be there long enough to need a fire. Got to work getting Arthur’s soaking shirt off. Arthur shuddered in the breeze. John was unable to stop the little gasp that left him once he saw the wounds. Clear bite mark where it had clamped down on Arthur’s shoulder. Deep red marks, almost black, decorated Arthur’s broad back. Miracle there weren’t wounds anywhere else. Already looked inflamed. John emptied both their canteens over the wounds, pat them dry with a spare shirt from Arthur’s saddlebag. Then he started to unroll the bandages in wavering lines, tight has he dared.

“That feel alright? Hey, Arthur, buddy, keep your eyes open for me.”

Arthur’s head jerked up and he blinked owlishly. “Mnn? S’fine, pull them tighter or it’ll keep bleeding.”

John wished he had paid attention more to Hosea’s attempts to teach him anything about wound care. Not much had stuck beyond “stop the bleeding” and “get the bullet out” and “infection is bad.”

“How’s this?”

“Better.” Arthur’s head came to rest against John as he tied off the last of the bandages and dressed him in the clean shirt. John left the ruined jacket on the side of the road and loaded Arthur onto Old Boy with some difficulty. Shoulder was definitely feeling more like the wound was fresh, not at all like he’d had two days of nothing but sitting on his ass letting it heal.

 _Just push through it. Arthur’s got it worse_.

“Ready?”

Arthur grunted in response. John spurred Old Boy forward and prayed the way back to camp stayed clear.


	2. Chapter 2

_Why’d you have to go and curse it, Marston?_

“I said hands up!”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Can’t you see he’s hurt?”

“Don’t care. Hands up or I shoot!”

Old Boy shifted beneath John. Things had been going okay, mostly. John wasn’t as familiar with the area around Annesburg as Arthur was and had gotten turned around a few times. The sun was well past set by the time he figured the right path again.

And now here they were, being held up by some grubby hillbillies.

John could feel the heat of Arthur’s fever through his clothes. Had undone the top few buttons of his shirt, weren’t much more to do beyond that unless he set down for camp, which he had been considering before these three _idiots_ jumped in front of the horses.

Calliope was nervous beside him. But Arthur seemed to be doing a good job training her up, lately, and the wild mustang stayed near them despite the threat. Kept glancing over at Arthur, but he’d passed out some time ago and John couldn’t get him to wake up longer than it took to force some water past his lips.

One of the men approached Calliope. She reared with a bellow, which set Old Boy off, and John found himself crashing into the ground before he could do anything. Arthur’s dead weight landed on top of him and forced all the air from his lungs.

Calliope shot off into the woods. Old Boy danced in a nervous circle but stuck close. One of the men got his reins, started rifling through John’s saddlebags.

The other two men set upon John and Arthur before John could get his breath back. Arthur was tossed onto his back—worried John, how he wasn’t making a peep through all this—and started going through his pockets and satchel. John struggled against the man trying to do the same to him. Got a pistol butt to the face for his troubles, right over the still-healing marks from the wolf attack.

“Stop strugglin’—”

A single shot and the man above Arthur fell to the side of the road, dead. Bullet between the eyes. Arthur shot the man over John before he could react. The body landed on John, knocking the air from him again.

Arthur struggled over to John, shoved the body away, collapsed against him. Both panted heavily.

Finally, after what seemed like years, John was able to get his breathing under control. Shoulder rightly on fire now; fall hadn’t done him any favors. Small miracle it wasn’t dislocated. John sat up, got his legs beneath him and hauled Arthur up. They staggered the few steps to Old Boy, Arthur leaned against him as John tried to calm the horse down.

“Thanks.”

Arthur only grunted in response. Arm held close to his chest. John thought he saw wetness at his shoulder, where the bandages were. Arthur’s face shone with sweat in the light of the full moon. He made a loud clicking noise a few times until Calliope trotted from the depths of the forest. Tossing her head and stamping her feet the whole way. She nuzzled Arthur’s other hand where it hung at his side.

“Sorry, girl.” He pet along her nose absently. John cleared his throat.

“Was thinking about setting up camp, before all . . . this.” He gestured vaguely at the bodies. The third man was nowhere to be seen.

Arthur shook his head. “Can’t.” Swallowed. John held out a canteen to him, had to help Arthur hold it to his lips. “Murphrees. Can’t stay here. Have to clear Ambarino first.”

“Won’t that take hours?”

“Don’t have much of a choice.”

“Arthur, you’ve got a fever, you need rest—”

Arthur moved as if he were going to mount Calliope. “Can’t rest if we’re _dead_.”

“Fine, but you have to ride with me. Don’t trust you not to fall off.”

Arthur laughed, a weak puff of air. “Seems to me that already happened. ‘Sides, how you expectin’ to hold me with your shoulder?”

“I’ll. . . I’ll tie you to the saddle if I have to!”

Arthur managed an actual laugh, that time. “Tie me to my own saddle, then.” Arthur pressed on Calliope’s head, made a small noise

John watched as Calliope lowered onto her knees to make it easier for Arthur to mount. Had no idea a horse could even manage that, gaped a little as she got back to her feet.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

John mounted with more difficulty than before. Shoulder throbbed something _fierce_ , felt like it were bleeding again.

  
  


The sun chased them out of the woods, dawn coloring the forest gold around them when Arthur started to list dangerously in his saddle. John could see the lights of the Emerald Ranch train station as he urged Old Boy as close to Arthur’s side as the horse could stand. Just barely caught the other man from tipping sideways.

“Alright, we’re stopping.”

“It’s not that much farther, I can—”

“Arthur, you’re burning up. I don’t know much but I do know fevers can get bad, and you’ve been burning all night.” John refused to let Arthur know how much his shoulder bothered him, wanted the man to focus on his own healing. Hoped he could get them both through a few hours’ rest. True, the ranch wasn’t too far from camp, but that didn’t matter if neither of them could stay on their damn horses.

Arthur closed his eyes. Tilted in the saddle again. John caught him by the sleeve.

“Fine. Just for a few hours.”

John led them a little ways off the trail, to a flat spot in the shade of a large tree. Hitched the horses but left their saddles on. Didn’t rightly think he could do up two sets of tack on his own. Weren’t so graceful, getting Arthur off his horse. John’s shoulder was starting to refuse his orders and it was only by getting a knee under Arthur’s back that the larger man didn’t slam into the dirt. John apologized anyways. Made quick work of getting Arthur’s bedroll out, didn’t bother with his own, was planning on keeping watch while Arthur rested. Got a small fire going. Realized his hands were so cold they were close to numb.

Arthur couldn’t keep his eyes open once he was laid out. John lifted his shirt and sure enough, he’d started bleeding again. Not so much that it was overflowing the bandages, but they had to get back to camp today, no exceptions.

John leaned against the tree. He’d close his eyes, just for a few minutes, just to clear the blurriness from them.

  
  


Woke up to someone grabbing his foot. Kicked out on instinct, connected with something.

“Fuck! Marston, _goddammit_ , it’s just me!”

John shot off the tree. Arthur had a hand over his bloody nose, glaring at John. Still looked like he had a fever. The fire had died. A cold wind whipped the branches above their heads, and it was darker than it should have been for being so early in the day.

“John!”

John’s attention snapped to Arthur. He’d managed to sit up, hand still over his nose. Subtracting the nose, he looked a smidge better.

“We need to go. Storm’s rolling in.”

“Right, let’s go.”

John staggered to his feet. Wiped sweat from his forehead. Offered both hands to Arthur to help him stand. Arthur rubbed his bloody hand on his pants.

John should have known, he really should have.

Sleeping against the tree was the last straw for his shoulder. Felt like something actually tore when he hauled Arthur to his feet. John cried out, let go of Arthur, clutched at his shoulder. Arthur stumbled into him but managed to keep them both on their feet.

“Shit, Marston, tell me next time.”

“Weren’t so bad before,” John said through gritted teeth. There was definitely wetness coming from the wound, now, enough to leave a stain on his fingers. Felt hot, too, probably had his own fever. Arthur was still half-slumped against him, and John dragged them both to the horses.

John leaned against Old Boy, tried to gather the strength to pull himself into the saddle.

Arthur sighed behind him. “Grip the pommel—no, _tight_ , Marston, there you go, get that foot in the stirrup and—” Arthur shoved a shoulder under John’s ass without warning, boosted him into the saddle. John almost over-corrected and fell, but managed to right himself.

“Keep that shoulder still.”

John looked down at where Arthur was panting against Old Boy’s neck.

“Arthur—”

“S _hut up, Marston_. Just. Gimme a minute.”

John shifted in the saddle. Tucked his busted arm through the straps of his suspenders. Felt a little better, it not being able to move around so much.

After a long moment Arthur shoved off Old Boy and stumbled over to Calliope, smacked into her and she grunted but repeated her trick so Arthur could mount up.

Thunder boomed behind them. John could feel the beginnings of rain. Arthur kicked Calliope forward without so much as a word and off they were, galloping across the plains ahead of a giant storm.

Outran it about as well as they outran most things, and they were soaked by the time they got back to camp. John was sure Arthur was mostly passed out in the saddle and that Calliope just knew her way home well enough by now. John spent the last mile within arms’ reach of Arthur, much to the disdain of both horses. Had to slow them to a walk. Had a hard time seeing the road through all the water in his eyes. How was he so hot with all the rain?

They turned up the path towards camp. Any second now, John knew, someone on lookout would call to them, and within a minute the rest of camp would be there to help them. Just had to make it another ten feet—

John felt Arthur start to slip from his saddle. Snatched at his shirt. Caught it, just barely, but Arthur was out cold and his weight pulled both of them from their saddles. John landed between the horses and the last thing he remembered was a set of hooves rushing towards his face.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up flying.

No, that weren’t right.

Blinked a few times, tried to move.

“Easy, son, you’re safe now, you’re home.”

John looked around. Not flying, being carried, Abigail at his feet and and Hosea gripping his torso.

“You’re a goddamn _fool_ , John Marston.”

“So you’ve said.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “There he is. Think he’ll be ok.”

“Where—where’s Arthur?”

Hosea backed into John’s tent. Couldn’t hear anything over the rain.

“He’s fine, Miss Grimshaw’s taking care of him now. You don’t look so well yourself, son.”

Hosea eased John onto his cot. Abigail unceremoniously dropped his feet and left without another word. Hosea started to move towards where John’s arm was still very obviously shoved through his suspenders.

“No—Hosea—Arthur—he—there was so much blood, help him first, Hosea—”

Hosea shushed John, guided him back down onto the cot. “Miss Grimshaw and the Reverend have it covered, John, let’s just focus on you for now. Something wrong with your arm?”

“Hosea, please—”

“I insist, John. If you’re so worried you can go see him _once_ I’m finished. Now, off with it.”

  
  


An eternity later, John was stitched and trussed up. Hosea told him to take it easy, that he had a fever and he needed to rest too, but waved John over to Arthur’s tent.

Hosea had taken his time, gone slow on purpose, but Miss Grimshaw was still planted at Arthur’s back, stitching away. The Reverend had his hands on both Arthur’s shoulders, keeping him up so Miss Grimshaw could work, but Arthur looked dead to the world. John loitered just outside. It had stopped raining shortly after Hosea finished bandaging him.

“How is he?”

“He’ll live. Might sleep for a week, but he’ll live.” Miss Grimshaw snipped the thread, done stitching. She and the Reverend worked together to wind long strips of bandage around the wounds. Arthur looked pale, paler than John had ever seen him.

“Sure he’s gonna be alright?”

Done with the bandages, they eased Arthur down onto his cot, pulled a blanket up to his chin.

“I’m sure, Mr. Marston. You’re welcome to sit with him if you like.”

John didn’t realize how tired he was until he flopped into the chair. His eyes drooped as he watched the steady rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, convinced it would stop the second he looked away. Up, down, up, down, up, down. John sagged deeper in the chair, eyes slid shut. Arthur snorted, breathing up down up down up down again. John’s chin hit his chest and he finally, well and truly passed out.

  
  


Woke up to a damp cloth moving on his forehead. He was back in his dark tent. Miss Grimshaw next to him on a stool with a cloth and a small bowl of water.

“Welcome back, Mr. Marston. Gave us a bit of a fright for a minute, there.”

All John remembered was sitting next to Arthur, how could that scare anyone?

“Don’t remember, hm?” She wrung the cloth out, placed it back on John’s forehead. Felt heavenly, how cold it was. “Passed right out, knocked your head on the table. Still got a bit of a fever but it’s not so bad now.”

“How long was I out?”

“Few days. Mr. Morgan’s been asking after you. Doing a lot better than you, Lord knows how that’s possible. Put more stitches in that boy’s back than I’ve ever done on one person in my whole life. Good thing you got him back here when you did.”

John tried to speak again, but all that came out was a croak. Miss Grimshaw helped him drink from a canteen. John thought he should be hungry but the idea of eating made his stomach flip. Was starting to realize just how much his head hurt. Reached up, felt a big lump beneath the cool cloth. Stung when he brushed it. Miss Grimshaw gently put his hand back on the bed.

“You just rest now, Mr. Marston.”

He fought sleep as long as he could. Lasted as long as it took Miss Grimshaw to pin the door to his tent open.

  
  


When John woke again, he had a mighty need to take a piss. Swung his legs over the bed and almost took a step without opening his eyes, but his leg knocked into something.

“Finally done lazing about, huh Marston?”

John cracked an eye open to see Arthur sat close to the bed, journal open in his lap. Looked like he’d been sketching Calliope in an open field.

“Gotta piss.”

Arthur chuckled, made a sweeping gesture towards the open tent.

John paused, looked back to Arthur. Still had an arm pressed close to his side, shirt buttoned lose, bandages easily visible, but he looked better. Not so pale, no sweat drenching his face. Beard had come in something fierce. John rubbed subconsciously at his own face.

“Glad to see you’re alright, John.”

“You too, Arthur.”

“And. . . thank you.” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. Stared at a very interesting bit of ground by his feet. “For getting us back.”

 _You’d do the same for me_.

John swallowed. “Anytime.”

“Oh, John?’

Finally met Arthur’s eyes. Why was he _smiling_ like that?

“Where the hell is my hat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very short but didn't quite feel like it fit with the previous chapter. Oh well, hope you enjoyed!


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